


Nothing but Vain Fantasy

by RunMild



Category: Bright (2017)
Genre: F/M, POV Second Person, my only consolation is this fic can't be any more of a mess than its original source, these aren't your tolkien elves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-19 13:22:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13124607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunMild/pseuds/RunMild
Summary: Between shady government agencies and the doomsday preppers from hell, life just got a heck of a lot more interesting.A romp through the BRIGHT-verse





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, okay. This movie was a clustercuss, but it was a lot of fun. Welcome to RunMild’s Writing While Under the Influence. It’s the weekend special, served with a side of mindless drivel. We’re all here for a good time, so pull up a chair.

The bar isn’t on the fashionable side of town, but the building itself is swanky enough to draw patrons from both sides of the tracks. The hazy lighting and wood paneling says “speak-easy,” but the music is synthetic and indistinct, and you appreciate the gentle blurring of lines. Liminality is your domain; your mixed heritage has never allowed for anything else.

“Another?”

You glance up at the server. Strange eyes. Round ears. No one here can check just one box on their race identification sheet, of that you can be certain.

“No. Thank you.” You swirl the last of your chardonnay—it’s not as dramatic as the red wines some of the other patrons sip with bloodless smiles, but you’re not here to make an impression—and he leaves with a slight nod.

This is no sports bar, no place for casual dining, and it’s not gauche enough to have televisions in plain view. It’s an unspoken rule in these places (there’s a whole genre of them, and you’ve sampled a hundred if you’ve visited one) that you must bring your own entertainment in the form of a companion, or else stare at the wall and sip your drink in quiet dignity. Screens are crass. Low class.

You prop your elbow on the table, phone in hand, and scroll through your newsfeed.

“Rebellion suits you.”

Your eyes don’t leave the muted video of a gang altercation, though the subtitles don’t tell you anything new. “You’re late.”

“I do not recall setting a time.”

“You were supposed to walk in when I was on my second glass, but now I’ve had three.” You look up, finally, meeting steady, pale eyes. “Don’t worry, I’ve cut myself off.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Kandomere says without an ounce of humor.

You do him the service of assuming it’s there, buried deep.

The elf slides into the chair across from you, his crisp suit unwrinkled despite the late hour and your suspicion that he has come straight from field work. Where the dim light hits, his hair shifts from gray to blue. It adds to the mercurial atmosphere of the room.

You roll the stem of your glass between your fingers, quirking up a smile that you hope is suitably vague. There’s not enough magic in your blood to really reach peak Fae potential. “Business or pleasure tonight?”

The joke is that it’s always business. Elves don’t generally stoop to law enforcement—even at the federal level—without personal vendettas or tabs to settle. It’s a broad generalization, sure, but with the world at their fingertips, what other motivations could they have? Certainly not the desire for justice. _Their_ justice can be bought.

Kandomere has the hungry look of someone who’s been crusading for too long.

“You have Seen the girl.”

No foreplay. Typical male.

“I see lots of girls. Hats off to two working eyes.” You settle back into your chair, feeling a touch too languid.

Perhaps the third drink was a mistake.

Kandomere’s stare is unblinking. “You did not bring me here to play sophomoric word games.”

“My word games are collegiate at least,” you say, hand over your heart. “But no, that’s not what brings us together tonight. _That’s_ just kismet.”

Watching Kandomere’s expression shift in frosty increments, you feel a bit like you’re pulling at the tail of a dragon. The end result is inevitably a burn, but the danger is half the fun.

“Kismet… is an address texted from your number, and the word “tonight?”” His teeth flash in the low light; he’s losing patience.

“I moonlight as the hand of Fate.” You shrug. At his glacial look, you sigh. “Also, the you-know-what is going to resurface by solstice.”

Kandomere’s ears actually shift back with the intensity of his focus. His eyes burn brighter than the votive between you. He leans forward, lips parting to shape his next question, but you head him off.

“ _Winter_ solstice.”

He sits back again, mouth flattening. “You revel in the illusion of power this situation lends you.”

Ah, and there’s the expected burn.

“And you hate that I hold all the cards during our engagements, but we both have our parts to play.” You try not to look too put out.

There’s a moment of grudging silence.

“Indeed,” he says finally, jaw flexing.

The Sight doesn’t generally afford you much more than headaches and traffic anxiety—too many variables, too many possibilities—but on a rare occasion, it provides entertainment.

Ruffling pretty, serious elves is the kind of quality amusement that borders on sadism, but if those mirrored eyes are going to flay you apart and lay your innermost pieces out like the grisly aftermath of an autopsy, you’d like half a chance to get under his skin, too.

You might, possibly, be nursing a crush.

The realization strikes you like a stray pitch at a home game, and you have to admit that you’re acting like a grade schooler on the playground. Looking at Kandomere’s hair, you can’t deny that you kind of want to tug it, and not entirely for g-rated reasons. It is not your finest drunk moment.

You straighten, hoping to regain your mental footing.

“Look, it’s far enough out that anything could happen, but it looks like your girl—” Meaning the pale waif with the wand. “—is going to join up with the Shield of Light.”

His eyes narrow. “The local branch?”

“No idea.”

You can see the cogs spinning in his brain, but he’s utterly still, no physical tells to his distraction other than the ghost of movement behind his eyes.

There’s so much you want to say—that this union may not be a destructive one, that it will likely become necessary in the coming dark days, that he looks like he could use a drink, and that you’d like to talk about something other than this, that the ebb and flow of evil is inevitable—but half of your job is discretion, so you keep your wine-loose tongue trapped behind your teeth.

“Anything else?” he asks, perhaps cottoning on to the wash of words caught low in your throat.

You shake your head and wish you had more wine to wash them down.

He looks unhappy, but it’s not directed squarely at you. His eyes flick past your head, and you hear the server just as he steps up to your shoulder.

Quiet, that one.

“Your check, madam.” Also, observant.

 A black folder appears at your elbow, but before you can reach for it, long fingers whisk it away.

You raise your eyebrows at your… companion? But he only slips a gleaming card into the sleeve and hands it back to the other man without a break in expression.

You feel off-balance suddenly, as though the gravity in the room has shifted.

“Your generosity is… appreciated,” you say slowly. The words “thank” and “you” are not to be uttered.

“It is nothing.”

It’s unexpectedly hard to meet Kandomere’s gaze, as if by picking up your check, some other tab has earned a tally with his name. You have enough murk (and magic) in your blood to sense the push-pull of power shifts, and this one makes you uneasy. Fae blooded creatures aren’t keen on debts.

“Consider it payment for your services,” Kandomere says after a long moment. You have no doubt that he can see the proverbial bristling of your fur from across the table.

It seems he likes playing dangerous games, too.

Still, his words soothe the ringing in your bones, a feeling like a chord plucked. You’re not sure you like its tune.

No, debts are no good at all.

“Well, this has been a treat, but I think I must be going.” Thank god you’re human enough that the glib lie slips off of your tongue with hardly a twinge of discomfort. “Until next time, Kandomere.”

“Always a pleasure,” he says taking your hand.

You blink. He is far too elven for such blatant falsehoods.

“…Indeed,” you say, parroting his earlier statement. His hand is cool to the touch, and you let go as soon as is polite.

You make a show of walking with great sobriety—much more than you feel—to the exit, but Kandomere stops you at the door anyway, one hand hovering just over your lower back.

“Do you require transportation home?”

Your smile is as fake as your laugh. “I’m afraid if I climb into one of your government vehicles, I might never be seen again.”

It’s a real concern, the Sight being an uncommon and highly sought-after gift, but it’s not one you fear tonight. You’re more alarmed about the prospect of being alone with the elf beside you—really, truly alone—and what you might say in his presence. You would be lying to yourself if you thought that his interest is unfeigned, but yours is _not,_ and you keep many secrets simply by virtue of being who and what you are. Glamours may be a thing of the past, but you’re not sure what the difference is between Fae magic and alcohol combined with heavy attraction, anyway.

You _are_ certain that you don’t want to find out.

Kandomere examines your face, and you’re not sure what he finds there, but a rare smile ghosts over his features. His expression leans more toward furtive than kind, though, and you feel well and truly sunk. The lifeboats are all gone, and you have only your own (very poor, preternatural abilities aside) judgement to keep you afloat.

The hand over your back makes contact, and as the light pressure zings through you, you give yourself over to the tides.

Self-preservation is overrated, anyway.

“Yes, a lift would be appreciated,” you hear yourself saying as he steers you out of the establishment and into the warm summer air. “If it’s no trouble.”

“It is no trouble.” You are probably not imagining the faint amusement in his tone.

There is no inherent discomfort at his words, so you take the offer as one freely given. No tiny barbs of commitment, no gossamer threads of implied repayment. Although, there is _some_ thing, a niggling at the base of your skull.

You open your mouth to question whether Kandomere feels it, too, just as he looks to you sharply and says, “What—”

And then your world implodes.

 

 

_Where the water once lapped at your toes, it now surges to your waist. It didn’t bother you when it was hardly a dark strip on the horizon, but now it is here, and you are bound to this place, tied and shaking against the fathomless cold. It is not the tide that scares you—though drown you, it may—but what lurks beneath. You feel it like an eye upon you, somewhere below the surface._

_The ocean rises and falls, and you are powerless to stop it. It would be folly to try. But your fingers claw at shell and sand, keeping them from the grasping hands of the sea, and you realize this, the erosion, can be stopped._

_A wave breaks across your face, and the salt is like fire in your lungs._

_It is coming, it is coming,_ it is coming—

 

 

“—do you See?”

Two hands on your shoulders. Sunlight—no, _streetlights,_ and the steady hum of traffic. Overpriced bar. Federal agent. Fey eyes.

You make a concentrated effort to meet those eyes, tongue rolling in a suddenly tacky mouth.

“I think,” you croak, “that we may not have until Solstice.”

Your nosebleed is heralded a build and release of pressure. You taste salt and copper.

“Not to be dramatic, but I think it’s the apocalypse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thoughts while watching this film: Someone's gonna write a fic about this pretty elf dude with two minutes of screen-time, right? 
> 
> I have to do everything myself around here, smh.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Years Eve! 
> 
> The response to this fic so far has just astounded me, and I appreciate each and every one of you. Your comments and kudos have brightened (haha... ha) my week.

There’s a woman in the water.

This wouldn’t be so odd—or, at least, it wouldn’t be so _annoying_ —if there wasn’t a sign specifically prohibiting this. It’s a small retention pond just behind a strip mall, and by all rights, not a hot place for a dip. There’s litter floating on the surface, catching in the weeds at the shoreline, and Ward’s almost certain that the rainbow film he’s seeing isn’t a product of algae. All and all, it’s pretty fucking gross, and he’d like to squelch back up to the road and unmuck himself _yesterday,_ thank you.

Unfortunately, the woman has other ideas.

“Ma’am, we’re just trying to help,” Jakoby says to the screeching, splashing figure.

She’s either high out of her mind or speaking in tongues, because Ward can’t understand a word of her gibberish. Some of it sounds like gargling.

“If you could just tell us how we can—” His partner’s attempt at reasoning is cut off by a particularly vicious slap of water, and a stream of what can only be expletives.

Jakoby looks at him, face dripping, in a wordless plea for help. It’s an expression that transcends race and species.

“Dunno what you want me to do,” Ward says, eyebrows raised. If he steps any closer, he’ll be in the line of fire, and _one_ of them ought to have dry socks. “Told you to just stay put.”

The woman pushes back a few feet, head dipping halfway below the surface. One set of eyelids blinks, quick as a camera shutter. Somehow, it still feels like she’s winning the staring contest.

Fuckin’ _mermaids_. Creepy as hell and always starting shit.

Once they arrived and the situation was made clear, Ward called in the necessary backup. They don’t have the equipment for hauling a mermaid out of the water, much less the means to transport her. He can’t thank his lucky stars often enough that he wasn’t assigned to the aquatic division. Nah, all that’s left for them to do is wait—and try to stay dry in the meantime.

His partner is failing on at least one of those fronts.

“If they take her out of here, you _know_ what they’re going to do,” Jakoby says.

His cajoling tone does nothing for Ward.

“Bag her up like a goldfish at the state fair?” he says. “Yeah, and she can see the sign, so if she wants to _avoid that_ —” He slides down his sunglasses long enough to give the fish lady a pointed Look. “—then she knows what to do.” He makes a wriggling motion with his arm, miming a fish swimming.

The woman bares her serrated teeth and hisses.

Jakoby stands from his crouch—what he thought he was going to accomplish by trying to coax her like a wayward dog, Ward doesn’t know—and wipes a hand over his face. His whole front is water-dark and Ward isn’t looking forward to the pond scum smell that’s going to saturate the cruiser after this. The movement startles the mermaid, and there’s a series of ripples as her tail undulates in agitation.

Jakoby slogs back up toward him.

“Daryl,” he says, voice lowering, “you know the city’s track record with relocating people like her.” He nods his head back towards the woman, and Ward gets the feeling that she’s just playing at not understanding English, because her head rises out of the water a couple inches to listen. “They don’t care where they drop them off, as long as it’s out of restricted waters. She could be cut off from her family.”

“Well she probably should have considered that before she _swam into restricted waters,”_ he says, unsympathetic. “Unless she’s planning to flop over to the JC Penny’s sale, there’s not much to keep her here.” He looks back to the floating head. “You hear me, Ariel? _Go home._ Yeah, don’t snarl at me, I know you understand what I’m sayin.’”

Their standoff is interrupted by the arrival of the aquatic team.

“Oh, good, another stagnant pond,” Hartman says, rolling her eyes. “We just fished a kelpie from some factory runoff, and I’m not sure either party will ever be the same.” She nods toward her partner, who looks—and smells—sour.

Hartman shouts the mermaid’s rights down to her, only to receive the same incoherent babble as before.

“Salty,” Hartman says, and laughs at her own joke.

Her partner sighs, put-upon, and slides back into the vehicle, cranking it with only a cursory glance towards the water. The winch on the back of the truck begins to lower a net, and from within the rear tank of the vehicle, Ward hears something sloshing.

“Yeah, so—we good?” He jerks a thumb toward the road and their own car. There’s a cloud of mosquitos out here, and his blood is at a premium.

Hartman waves them away. “Yeah, yeah, go back to your cushy land patrol.”

Below them, the mermaid is thrashing in the shallow pond, but the grasp of the net is inexorable. Ward sees her dark tail for the first time, and it strikes him all over again how _weird_ merpeople are. All that tail and a human-sized torso. The more she struggles, the tighter she winds herself into the net’s weave.

“Whew, she’s no tadpole,” Hartman says as her partner leans out to watch the progress. “Wonder how she got here?”

Jakoby watches the net start to raise with clenched fists. Ward thumps his damp shoulder with a pointed look.

“Drainage pipe,” he says as he turns away. “Isn’t that how they all get inland?”

He doesn’t really care; it’s not his problem anymore.

“Nah, this one’s too big. You seen that hole?” Hartman points, and Ward is curious enough to turn and peek over the edge.

“…Huh.” The opening is, indeed, too small for an adult, much less an adult with a thick, serpent-like tail. There’s also a grate over it, untouched.

“What does that _mean?”_ Jakoby asks, still wound tighter than the winch beside them.

“Means someone—or some _thing_ —brought ‘er here,” Hartman says with a shrug. “But unless this becomes a trend, our problem is just getting her _out._ ”

Jakoby catches his eye and Ward bristles.

“No, nuh-uh, we are not doing this again.” He makes a slashing motion with his hand. “You heard Hartman—unless this happens again, this is case closed.”

“What if she wants to talk?”

He almost can’t believe what he’s hearing. “The woman who’s been spitting at us for twenty minutes?” He knows that look, though, and he knows exactly where it leads. “Okay, alright—look. If you find something out, we’ll follow up. But I’m not chasing dead leads for someone who doesn’t even want to press charges.”

Jakoby nods, and something close to a grin tugs at his lips. “So, if I find anything _fishy—”_

Ward holds up a single finger. “That was it. That was your one fish pun.” He turns and stomps back to the cruiser. “I hope it was worth it.”

Jakoby’s rasping laugh follows him all the way to the car.

 

* * *

 

Kandomere wants to bundle you off to his superiors, that much is clear.

“Can you—can we stop with the federal agent stuff for a minute? I’m swallowing blood here.” You consider sitting down on the pavement, but these are your good jeans; you’d rather risk a headrush than a permanent oil stain.

You can feel your aloof façade crumbling around your ears as you sway into the elf’s grip, and the knowledge that you’re revealing your mortality in such a messy way is doing nothing for your pounding headache.

How on earth are you going to garner his respect after this?

“You need to sit,” Kandomere says, still holding you by the shoulders. His expression says he will not be drawing you in any closer, because— _ew,_ blood.

Prissy little shit.

“It’s—I’m fine,” you say. There’s a very small centaur kicking behind your eye socket, but it’s nothing you haven’t dealt with before. “I can get home from here.”

The vision didn’t exactly sober you up, but you’re sharp enough to grab a cab.

“I am not leaving you,” Kandomere says, and your heart gives the tiniest flutter before he ruins it by saying, “I need you to tell me what you Saw.”

If your heart’s a bird, it just got shot out of the sky.

Infatuation is for the dogs.

“Feel free to call me tomorrow.” You go to shake off his hands, but he holds firm. “Just don’t call before twelve.”

“You seem to think this is a negotiation,” he says. He’s leaning in—just a tad, not enough to put his suit at risk of your gore—and you’re reminded of wolves in storybooks.

_My, what sharp teeth you have._

But you’re not the lost girl in the woods, and you’re not the woman to be devoured.

“No, it’s not, because I have the final word, and that word is _no.”_ You bring your hand up to your face, and it comes away stained. “I don’t work for you. Freelance, remember?”

Your ability to choose your clients makes up for the lack of dental. And if he doesn’t shape up, Kandomere will have to find himself another seer consultant, pretty face aside. The fact that he’s with the feds makes you twitchy enough. Historically, government agencies and magic-types don’t mix well. One side always wants more than the other can give, and has the clout to either _take_ it or hurt the other party in trying.

You rather value your autonomy and mental health.

Kandomere looks like he wants to grit his teeth. “You said it was the apocalypse.”

“Yes, probably,” you say with more detachment than you feel. “But apocalypses are just part of the cycle. The wheel turns. Nothing ever really ends.”

Strangely, this does not seem to comfort him.

“And do you wish to be the end of the snake being eaten in this ouroboros metaphor?” he asks. He finally releases you, pulling back with a muted look that could be read as either disgust or frustration. One hand disappears into a coat pocket and reemerges with a folded white square. He presses it into your still-raised hand. “I do not want this back.”

You take the handkerchief with a dazed blink.

“Tha—er. Appreciated.” You need to come up with a better alternative to the t-word.

The cloth smells faintly of some kind of cologne—or perhaps it smells strongly of it, but you can hardly tell over the scent of blood—and it feels strange to hold it up to your face. It’s a personal token, given as an impersonal gesture, and you’re not sure what that makes it.

It’s possible that you’re overthinking again.

Kandomere looks away, toward the evening traffic, while you tip your head back and snuffle.

The moment of quiet gives you a chance to put some order to your jumbled thoughts. You do a cursory check of your shirtfront, covertly trying to tell if your nosebleed has ruined more than just your dignity. You think you’re in the clear there, but even more troubling than possible blood stains are the ramifications of your latest vision.

Sometimes the Sight doesn’t grant you a clear picture, and often your premonitions manifest as gut-feelings and vague metaphors. This case is certainly the latter. Individuals with your… “gift” are far from all-knowing. The greater number of people affected by an event, the more emotionally invested you find yourself, the less likely you are to See the big picture. It’s a lot of guesswork, your side job, and no one ever thanks you for it. It’s always “why can’t you give me a straight answer” and “well, what does that _mean?”_

Sometimes the ocean is just the ocean, Sharon.

And sometimes… sometimes the ocean is a metaphor for the apocalypse.

You look at Kandomere. His profile is very pretty, yes, but pretty things in nature are often dangerous. They’re just there to draw in the unwary.

He’s going to want answers. His higher-ups are going to want specifics.

_I’m afraid if I climb into one of your government vehicles, I might never be seen again._

Bad things happen to people who prophesy Armageddon.

Kandomere breaks the silence, finally. You were beginning to think he’d forgotten about you.

“Allow me to take you home.” His colorless eyes flash red with the passing brake lights, and you are reminded, once again, of sinister creatures and smiles that bleed.

You strongarm your impending panic attack into a little box and shelve it for later.

“ _My_ home?” you specify.

He tilts his head in your direction, gaze still averted. You wonder if he’s trying to give you some semblance of privacy to gather yourself; the evening traffic cannot be that riveting.

“Your home.”

“And that’s the only stop we’ll be making?” you press. Words are important. They’re a contract, even if many have forgotten their power.

Kandomere faces you again, serious where others may be amused or frustrated by your hesitance. “We will only stop if you wish to do so.”

You consider it, then nod. “I accept your offer.”

It’s traditional to shake on it, but he turns before you can think to extend a hand, and you crumple his bloodied handkerchief in your palm instead.

As far as old magics go, you think, it’s practically the same thing.

It’s strange to see an elf behind the wheel of a car—chauffers are so commonplace that urban myths have sprung up about an elven inability to drive—but Kandomere seems unperturbed. His driving is smooth and unaggressive (a feat in L.A. traffic) and if you were any less keyed up, you would be at risk of falling asleep. The radio remains silent, and you are almost disappointed that you won’t have an opportunity to discover whether the stern agent listens to experimental elven pop or something more plebian.

The trip is not nearly long enough for you to decide how to phrase your request.

“Do you require assistance?” Kandomere asks when he pulls into your complex and you linger a moment too long.

Translation: get the hell out of my car.

Your hand wavers over the door handle. You bite the inside of your cheek and flex your fingers before shifting to face him.

“I have a request.”

His eyebrows raise by a degree. “You know what I would ask in return.”

Answers.

“Yes, and I would be willing to talk _if—_ ” You hold up a finger. “—you agree that the last part of our night remains between us for now.”

His expression doesn’t change and _dammit,_ you’d like to get a read on him.

“You want me to withhold knowledge of your vision from my superiors.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question. You both know what you’re asking—and why you’re asking it.

What you don’t know is whether he’ll take the bait.

“We met for the purpose of discussing the Bright—”

“That was never specified,” he interrupts.

“—and I told you what I knew of that situation. But the rest—that was never meant to be a part of it.” It’s a terribly weak argument, and you know it.

Kandomere humors you anyway.

“Do you often keep apocalyptic visions secret?” he wonders, eyes boring into yours as if he can ferret out the mysteries there.

You stay silent, unsure which answer is least likely to get you hauled back to the feds. Is it more or less alarming that this is your first vision of such magnitude?

When your answer is clearly unforthcoming, Kandomere relents.

“You will call as soon as you are able.”

“Yes,” you say, trying to mask the relief in your tone.

“You will not withhold any pertinent information,” he presses.

You unclench your teeth to force the word out. “…No.”

You can’t say that you are enjoying the shift in power dynamics.

Kandomere’s eyes flick between both of yours, as if weighing your words and determining their worth. You aren’t lying, though; if he buys you enough time to get a clearer picture before someone comes knocking down your door _demanding_ it, you will tell him what you See.

Now you just need to figure out what it _is_ , exactly, that you See.

Kandomere nods, slowly. “I agree to your terms.”

You return the nod, lightheaded, and turn to step out of the car.

A hand around your forearm pulls you to a stop, halfway through the door. A different sort of electricity than before jolts through you, the fine hairs on your arm standing on end.

“Do not do anything unwise,” Kandomere says, leaning ever-so-slightly across the console.

You’re not sure what he’s referring to here—does he think you’ll try to run?—but his grip is iron, and you are Fae-blooded.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you say.

 

 

But you do dream.

 

 

_The water here is bright._

_You have no form with which to swim, but the light buoys and guides you through the current. Where the surging ocean was dark and draining, this sustains. You are a speck, a cell in a great capillary, a tiny part of a breathing whole._

_There is something else breathing, though. Something sleeping far below, beneath, between._

_A sickness?_

_No._

_A fever._

_A cleansing fire._

_The water grows dim—dimmer still. It is the heart, and it beats in time with the world._

_But little light remains, the bright specks winking out like stars. Supernovas, then—_

_“_ _—dark. Our shift is almost over, and you want us to slog through a pond with headlamps? Nick, I wanna go_ home.”

 _They whisper as if you cannot hear, as if their words do not echo and bounce. Vibrations are different on the surface, and you do not_ like _it._

_Your thrash your tail in the confined space of your provided tank, but it is nothing more than a prison._

_The water here is foul._

_The water—_

The water—

 

 

Your eyes open before you are truly awake, your mind still snarled around the dream. Your thumb finds the button on your phone by instinct.

Kandomere picks up on the first ring. “I did not expect a call so soon.”

Your eyes close against the daylight, but you can still See.

“We need to see a man about a mermaid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to suliel, who not only started a great fic, but also dedicated it to me even though I DID NOTHING TO DESERVE IT OH MY GOD??? Hhhhhh
> 
> Also! I'm pretty sure I'm gonna make the MC a full-on OC and change this over to third person POV. I think the narrative would benefit from it. 
> 
> All in favor, say "aye."


End file.
